with the sail we had left, we couldn’t hope to beat back into the westerly winds. At that moment, a tousled head appeared by my bunk. “Can I have a hug?” Jonathan asked. Sue was right behind him.
“Why am I getting a hug now?” I asked. “Because you are the best daddy in the whole world — and the best captain,” my son replied. “Not today, Jon, I’m afraid.” “Why, you must be,” said Sue in a matter-of-fact voice. “You found the island.” “What!” I shouted.
“It’s out there in front of us,” they chorused, “as big as a battleship.” I rushed on deck and gazed with relief at the stark outline of Ile Amsterdam. It was only a bleak piece of volcanic rock, with little vegetation — the most beautiful island in the world! We anchored offshore for the night, and the next morning all inhabitants of the island cheered as they helped us ashore. With land under my feet again, my thoughts were full of Larry and Herbie, cheerful and optimistic under the direst stress, and of Mary, who stayed at the wheel for all those crucial hours.
Most of all, I thought of a seven-year-old girl, who did not want us to worry about a head injury (which subsequently took six minor operations to remove a recurring blood clot between skin and skull), and of a six-year-old boy who was not afraid to die.